The Woman in the Fifth (36 page)

'Yes, we have. It was just a passing comment, that's all. But I would like to know if you were acquainted with your neighbors in the building where you maintained your "office".'

'No, I wasn't.'

'Do you have any idea of what sort of business was going on in the "office" on the ground floor?'

'None whatsoever. Do you?'

Another look from Coutard to Leclerc.

'We raided the place last night,' Leclerc said. 'The downstairs office – it was more like a small warehouse space – was empty. But it looked like it had been cleared out, with haste, only a few hours before we got there. Our forensic team did discover traces of blood in the wood floors and the walls, as well as several large electrical cables . . . the types often used for cinema lights. There was also a stagelike area in the center of the space, with a few pieces of furniture and a bed. The mattress had vanished, the headboard on the bed had been washed, but there were still microscopic particles of blood imbedded in the woodgrain.'

Coutard came in here.

'Our belief is that the downstairs premises were used to front several activities – including the making of pornographic and snuff films. You know what snuff films are, don't you?'

I nodded – and remembered the night the body was dragged out as I peered out of my doorway. But if I had been the night watchman for a snuff film operation, why didn't I hear other bodies being carted away?

'We have been aware, for some time, that these sorts of films have been shot in this
quartier
. We just didn't know where. Now we have reason to believe it was in the same building where you were writing your novel.'

'That's news to me.'

'And that is bullshit,
monsieur
,' Coutard said. 'You were the guard on the door; the man who vetted everyone who came and went there. That's why you had the monitor on your desk.'

'I never knew what was going on downstairs. I never used the television monitor. As far as I was concerned the building was empty.'

'We also found traces of cocaine and laxative in the kitchen area of the downstairs space,' Leclerc said. 'So a drugs operation was also working out of the same premises. And forensics turned up traces of gelignite as well.'

'Gelignite is a plastic explosive,' Coutard said. 'A favorite of bomb makers. And still you had no idea of the activities taking place directly below you?'

'Absolutely none.'

'He's a liar, isn't he?' Coutard asked Leclerc.

'I've no doubt he was the night watchman,' Leclerc said, 'but he could have been kept in the dark as to what was going on downstairs.'

'I think he knew
everything
.'

'I knew nothing,' I said.

'We weren't speaking to you.'

'You have no proof I knew anything,' I said.

'Monsieur,' Coutard said, 'I can legally hold you for another twenty-four hours . . . which I will be most willing to do if you are disrespectful to us again.'

'I mean no disrespect,' I said.

'Curious man, Monsieur Ricks,' Coutard said to Leclerc. 'You know about the circumstances that brought him to a
chambre de bonne
in our
quartier
?'

'I read the dossier, yes.'

'And do you remember from the dossier that there was a man in authority at the mediocre college who orchestrated Monsieur Ricks's downfall?'

'Wasn't that the same man who ran off with Ricks's wife?'

'Absolutely. And during the course of my further investigations into Monsieur Ricks's background yesterday, I discovered a fascinating new twist to the extraordinary narrative that is Monsieur Ricks's life. I typed in the name of the college at which Monsieur Ricks used to teach. What was it called again?'

'Crewe College,' I said.

'That's it. Anyway, among the many entries listed was a news report from a local paper. It seems that the Dean of this college – a Monsieur Robson – was dismissed from his job just a few days ago when it was discovered that he had an extensive child pornography library on his computer at work.'

'What?' I said loudly.

'You heard me. According to the paper, it's quite the
scandale
. Your ex-wife must be appalled.'

I put my head in my hands.

'He looks upset,' Leclerc said.

I wasn't upset. I was suffering from a massive dose of disbelief and horror as I recalled the remnants of an exchange I had had with Margit only a few days earlier.

'So,'
she said to me,
'what do you think would be an appropriate payback for all the harm he perpetrated?'

'You want me to fantasize here?'

'Absolutely. The worst thing that could happen to the bastard.'

'You mean, like discovering that he had a huge collection of kiddy porn on his computer?'

'That would do nicely.'

'Oh my God,' I said under my breath.

'I thought he'd be pleased to hear such news,' Coutard said to Leclerc.

'Yes, you would have expected him to applaud such a downfall.'

'Unless he feels guilty about it.'

'But why would he feel guilty?'

'Perhaps he himself planted the pornography on the gentleman's computer.'

'Unlikely . . . unless he's one of those highly skilled hackers who can tap into somebody's hard drive.'

'Maybe he asked a friend to do it for him?' Coutard said.

'Yes – maybe he has a very malicious friend.'

'It makes sense, doesn't it?' Leclerc said. 'I mean, the man is also sleeping with a dead woman, so why shouldn't he also have an avenging angel?'

'I bet he also believes in Santa Claus.'

'And the Easter Bunny.'

'And Snow White . . . who was once his mistress.'

Coutard began to laugh. Leclerc joined in. I didn't look up at either of the inspectors. I kept my head in my hands.

'The man has no sense of humor,' Leclerc said.

'Don't you find any of this funny, Monsieur Ricks?'

'Am I free to go now?' I asked.

'I'm afraid you are.'

Coutard pushed my passport across the desk.

'You need help,
monsieur
,' he said.

To which I felt like saying,
I've got all the help I don't want.

But instead I picked up my passport and gave the two inspectors a quick nod of goodbye.

'We'll meet here again,' Coutard said as I turned to leave.

'How do you know that?' I asked.

'Trouble is your destiny,
monsieur
.'

I
HIT THE
street. I hailed a cab.

'Rue Linné,' I said.

As soon as I reached Margit's address, I punched in the code and charged up the staircase to her apartment. When I reached her door I held down the buzzer. No reply. I banged on the door. No reply. I banged again and called her name. No reply.

'Goddamnit, Margit – open the fucking door.'

Without thinking I threw my entire weight against it. There was a bit of give around the lock, but it still wouldn't open. I stepped back and attempted another flying tackle. No further give, but my right shoulder suddenly hurt like hell. I ignored the pain and charged at the door again. There was a loud crunch as it splintered free of the lock. Gravity carried me into the apartment. I stumbled and landed on the bed, breaking my fall with my hands. I immediately began to cough, courtesy of the thick layer of dust that covered everything. I raised up my hands. They were coated with gray powder. I looked at the bed, upon which I had made love so many times with Margit. Soot enveloped the pillows, the blanket, the sheets. I stood up, dusting off my jeans. I walked into the front room. All the furniture was buried under dust. Ditto the little kitchen. The windows were opaque with grime. There were cobwebs in every corner of the room. The carpet was covered with rodent droppings. And when I opened the door of the side room – the room which Margit's daughter called her own – I jumped back in horror. Three rats were huddled together on the floor, picking at the corpse of a dead mouse.

Then, suddenly, from behind me came a voice.

'Get out.'

I spun around. Standing in the living room was a diminutive man of around sixty-five. He was gray, stooped, and holding a hammer in one hand. He glared at me with a mixture of anger and fear. His hand started to shake as he raised the hammer.

'What are you doing here?' he demanded.

'Who lives here?' I asked.

'No one.'

'Do you know Margit Kadar?'

'She's dead.'

'That can't be—'

'Get out
now
.'

The hammer trembled again.

'Margit Kadar
lives
here,' I said.

'She
lived
here. Until 1980, when she went back to Hungary and died.'

'No one has lived here since then?'

'Look around you. Do you actually think someone lives here?'

'I have been coming here twice a week for months.'

'I've never seen you – and I see everybody who comes through the front door.'

'You're lying.'

The hammer trembled again.

'I'm calling the police,' he said.

'What sort of fucked-up game is going on here?'

'You're crazy.'

He turned around and started to walk quickly toward the door. I chased after him. When I grabbed his shoulder, he spun around and swung the hammer at me. I just managed to duck out of its path, catching the concierge by the other wrist, then yanking it up behind his back. He squealed in pain.

'Drop the hammer,' I said.

'Help me,' he yelled to no one in particular. I yanked his arm harder. He squealed again.

'Drop the hammer now or I'll break your fucking arm.'

The hammer fell from his hand. The concierge began to whimper.

'There's forty euros in my wallet, if that's what you're after.'

'All I'm after is the truth,' I said. 'Who lives here?'

'Nobody.'

'When did you last see Margit Kadar?'

'In 1980.'

'Liar.'

'You have to believe me—'

'The apartment is always clean, always—'

'What are you talking about?'

'Why haven't you seen me before?
Why?
'

'Because I never have. Now will you please let me go.'

'Did you know about the murder she committed?'

'Of course. It was in all the papers. The man who ran over Zoltan and Judit.'

'You know their names.'

'Naturally I know their names. They
lived
here.'

'With Margit?'

'I don't know why you are asking these mad questions.

This was Margit's apartment. When she lost her husband and daughter, she went crazy and killed the driver of the car that killed her family. Then she fled back to Hungary, and the next thing I heard she was dead.'

'And since then . . . ?'

'Since then?
Nothing.
The apartment remains unused. The bills get paid, but no one has ever come in here. Until this afternoon. Please,
monsieur
. . .'

I suddenly felt as if the world was spinning in front of me. I was in a reality that might not be a reality that still might be real. Dust and cobwebs and mouse shit and rats. And yet, just a few days ago when I was here . . .

'I don't understand,' I heard myself saying.

'Please,
monsieur
, you're hurting me.'

'I just want the truth.'

'I've told you the truth. You must believe me.'

I can't believe anything right now.

'If I let you go, do you promise not to start yelling for help or reaching for the hammer?' I asked.

'I promise.'

I pulled my hand away from his arm.

'I'm leaving now,' I said, taking one last bewildered glance around the room. 'If you do anything . . .'

'You have my word,
monsieur
. Just go now. Please.'

'I'm sorry if I hurt your arm. I'm just . . .'

'Go,
monsieur, go
. . .'

'. . . lost.'

I raced down the stairs and out into the street, wondering,
What now?
I saw a cab. I flagged it down. I climbed inside.

'Where are you going,
monsieur
?' the cabbie asked.

'I don't know.'

'You
don't know
?
Monsieur
, this is a taxi. I need a destination.'

One suddenly arrived in my head.

'The Panthéon. Rue Soufflot.'

'
Très bien, monsieur
.'

He dropped me in front of Lorraine L'Herbert's apartment building. There was no intercom speaker on the front door, but I got lucky. An elderly woman with a small dog was going inside as I approached. After she punched in the code, I held the door open for her and followed her inside. She thanked me, though I could see her looking over my bedraggled state and wondering if she did the right thing by letting me in.

'Are you visiting someone,
monsieur
?'

'Madame L'Herbert.'

That reassured her. I excused myself and headed up the stairs. When I reached L'Herbert's apartment, I rang the bell. No answer. I rang it again, holding it down a long time. From inside, I heard L'Herbert shouting, 'All right, all right, I'm coming.' After a minute, the door opened. She was in a long silk bathrobe. Her face was covered in some black substance – a makeup mask – which she was attempting to rub off with a handful of tissues.

'Who are you?' she asked.

'My name is Harry Ricks and I was at your salon a couple of months ago.'

'You were?' she said, staring at my unkempt state.

'I met somebody here – a woman named Margit Kadar . . .'

'And you came by to get her phone number? Hon, we're not a dating service. Now if you'll excuse me . . .'

I put my foot in the door as she tried to close it.

'I just need to ask you—'

'How'd you get in here?'

I told her.

'Well, the salon's on Sunday night, and you know the rules: you have to call up and reserve your place. Coming by like this, unannounced . . .'

'You have to help me. Please.'

She looked me over with care.

'You're American, right?'

'You don't remember me?'

'We have fifty to one hundred people every week, so, no, I don't remember everyone. Something wrong, hon? You look like you've been sleeping in the park.'

'Margit Kadar. The name doesn't ring a bell?' She shook her head.

'You sure?' I asked, then described her. Again L'Herbert shook her head.

'Why is this so important? You in love or something?'

'I just need to verify that she was here the night I was here.'

'Well, if you met her here, then she
was here
.'

'Please, could you get your assistant to check your records?'

'He's out right now. If you phone him in about two hours—'

'I don't have two hours. Don't you have a database or something where you could look her up?'

She stared down at my foot in her door.

'You're not going to go away until I do this, are you?'

'No, I'm not.'

'If you agree to let me shut the door, I'll see if I can help you.'

'You will come back?'

'Fear not,' she said with an ironic smile. ''Cause if I don't, y'all are going stand here, beating on my door till I do come back. Am I right, hon?'

'Absolutely.'

'Back in a jiffy.'

I removed my foot. She closed the door. I sat down on the stairs and rubbed my eyes, and tried to get that image of Margit's apartment under dust out of my brain. I failed. No doubt the concierge had called the cops by now. No doubt they were probably searching for me. If they couldn't pin two murders on me, they could still have me arrested for assault and general lunacy. By the end of the day I could be locked up in some madhouse, awaiting deportation back home. Imagine what will happen if word gets out that I was thrown out for insisting that I was romantically involved with a dead woman. Then again, compared with the scandal which had engulfed Robson . . .

But it wasn't just Robson. It was also Omar – because I'd mentioned to her how I despised his toilet habits. And then there was Yanna's husband: '. . .
now you know why I hate any man who hits a woman in the face.
'